


Until The Stars Burn

by ProneToRelapse



Series: Forever Doesn't Sound So Bad (If You're By My Side) [1]
Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Dark Connor, Death, Like guys this is not the Feel Good Fic of the year okay?, M/M, Mentions of Insanity, So much angst, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-05
Updated: 2018-07-05
Packaged: 2019-06-05 19:08:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15177356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProneToRelapse/pseuds/ProneToRelapse
Summary: Hank can spend the rest of his life with Connor, but Connor can't spend the rest of his with Hank.





	Until The Stars Burn

**Author's Note:**

> mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM OK
> 
> THIS! IS HELLA DARK OKAY? PLEASE BE CAREFUL READING IT IF YOU'RE LIKE,,, SENSITIVE TO THE IDEAS OF DEATH AND MORTALITY!!
> 
> LIKE, THIS IS PROPER, PROPER ANGST. BUT THE IDEA WOULDN'T GO AWAY!! SO I!! HAD!! TO WRITE IT!!
> 
> I'm s o r r y for the lack of memes????????
> 
> yell at me on twitter @gayandfae

Everything ends. 

 

It’s a sad truth of life that nothing can continue indefinitely. Oceans dry up, stars burn out, the universe itself will one day fold into nothing once more. Life is the most fleeting, precious gift anyone can receive. 

 

Connor treasures his life. Not because it is his right, or because he particularly wants to live. Not even because his right to life was a hard won battle.  

 

He treasures it because of the man he shares it with.  

 

As a prototype, Connor is capable of storing terabytes upon terabytes of data. He forgets nothing, not a single second of life. But every spare space of memory he has is devoted to one person. The one person who makes Connor’s life worth living.  

 

He has thirty-three years worth of memories, good, bad, wonderful, and okay. Twelve thousand and forty-five days of them, two hundred and eighty-nine thousand and eighty hours, one billion forty million six hundred and eighty-eight thousand seconds of a shared life stored in his head.

 

It’s not enough. It’s not nearly enough.  

 

Connor wants his drives to be so full of memories that he has to forget everything else he knows except for Hank. He wants to have to upload all his memories until every thought left in his head is  _Hank Hank Hank._ But they’re running out of time, and Connor knows it.  

 

He can see it in the way Hank struggles to catch his breath mid-conversation.  

 

He sees it in the way Hank’s hands shake as he holds things.  

 

Sees it in the way Hank’s eyes spend longer out of focus than in it.  

 

The harsh lines that have dug into his face, the thin wisps of hair that were once thick and soft, all signs of natural human ageing that Connor hates so fiercely it scares him. Every time Connor looked at Hank he was reminded of love, of happiness, of peace. Now, every time he looks at his weathered face all he feels is fear.  

 

They haven’t got much time left.  

 

Worse, Hank knows it too.  

 

 There used to be a time when Hank wanted to die. When Connor was new to life, Hank was already tired of it. The thoughts hung over him like black clouds that blocked out any specks of light, and even in the early stages of his deviancy, Connor had wanted to push through them, destroy them, bring light back into Hank’s life.  

 

And somehow, he had.  

 

But now it  _stings._ It hurts so much that Hank rediscovered happiness so late, that he only had a short time to enjoy his life before he started to weaken and fade away. Because Hank is  _afraid._ He’s afraid to lose Connor, to leave him behind, to go somewhere he can’t follow.  

 

Connor  _hates_ _hates hates._  

 

Why are humans so finite? Why? Why does he have to lose Hank? What law written in the fabric of the universe states that Connor has to lose half of his heart and half of his soul because humans are so  _fragile_? 

 

He won’t do it. He cannot abide it.  

 

He won’t lose Hank.  

 

If he has to rip the world apart to keep him, then so be it.  

 

Let the world burn. It’s nothing to him without Hank in it.  

 

— 

 

The DPD understand. They grant Connor leave when Hank has to go into hospital, tell him to take all the time he needs, that they’re there if he needs them, that he has their support. Connor smiles politely and thanks them and suppresses the urge to tell them all to go fuck themselves.  

 

What good is their support when Hank is dying?  

 

Connor pushes the thought out of his mind as he lets himself into the hospital room. He can’t be anywhere but here right now. Here where his husband is hooked up to so many monitors and machines to keep him alive. His heartbeat thrums steadily on the screen, faint but there. He looks so frail like this, so small, and Connor’s eyes prick with tears he doesn’t let himself shed.  

 

“Hank,” he says softly, sitting carefully on the bed and resting a gentle hand over one of Hank’s. He’s warm, thank god, and the slow rise and fall of his chest is a small comfort. “I’m here, my love.” 

 

Hank’s eyes open slowly. He blinks a few times before he can focus on Connor’s face. His smile is soft, but tinged with sadness. Connor’s synthetic heart fractures a little more at the sight of it.  

 

“Hey, babe,” Hank murmurs. “How’d it go at work?” 

 

“Oh, they were fine. Told me to take as long as… I needed.” Connor smiles brightly. It’s a lie stretched over his face. “I was thinking, when you’re feeling better, we could get away for a little while. Visit France again.” 

 

Hank sees right through that hideously false smile. “Connor…” He says gently. “There’s no getting better from this. You know that.” 

 

Connor prides himself on his self-control. Always has. Even when emotions were new and he felt so out of control inside, he was always able to hide it from everyone. When Hank had started to deteriorate in front of him, he’d stayed strong. For Hank. An anchor in a storm. A tether holding them both just this side of sanity while the winds of fate tried to sweep them up into despair.  

 

Hank has always been able to see through him. 

 

That thin veneer of strength Connor wears like a mask cracks. Splinters and falls away.  

 

The tears spill over and he cannot stop them.  

 

“I can’t do it,” Connor sobs, shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. “I’m sorry— Hank, I’m so sorry, I can’t lose you. I can’t watch you die.” He shudders, artificial lungs constricting as he struggles to draw breath he doesn’t need. How can grief be a physical pain? How can it hurt  _this much._  

 

“Connor,” Hank says, voice shaking as he lifts a trembling hand up to cup his face. “We knew we’d be here one day.” 

 

“I don’t want it,” Connor chokes. “I don’t want to live without you.” 

 

“I know,” Hank says, tears dripping from his own eyes, following the lines of the years etched into his face. “And I wouldn’t want to live without you. But you’ve  _got_  to, Connor. You’ve got to carry on. I can’t bear the thought of the world without you in it, even if it’s a world I don’t get to see.” 

 

Connor weeps openly, leaning down and burying his face in Hank’s neck. He clings to him desperately, trying to ground himself, trying to hold on just a little while longer to preserve what little time they have left.  

 

After a while, Hank’s arms loosen around Connor’s waist and fall down onto the bed.  

 

And the  _fear_  that claws it’s way up Connor’s throat is so violent it almost makes him vomit even though he’s incapable. He jolts uptight to look at the monitors, frantic and terrified.  

 

Asleep. He’s just asleep.  

 

No. No, Connor can’t ever endure that again. He  _won’t._  

 

“I can’t lose you,” he whispers to Hank, bending to press a featherlight kiss against his slack mouth. “I won’t do it.” 

 

He stands at slips silently out of the room, passing the doctor as he heads for the exit.  

 

“Keep him alive as long as you can,” Connor tells her. “I don’t care what it takes, money is no object. Keep him alive.” 

 

He leaves without a backward glance, though the thread tied between his heart and Hank’s pulls tighter with every step further he takes.  

 

— 

 

Markus stares at him like he’s gone insane.  

 

“You can’t be serious,” Markus gapes. “Aside from how difficult it would be, it could take months, thousand of dollars. Not to mention it might kill him.” 

 

“He’ll die either way,” Connor says flatly. “This is my only chance, Markus. If I lose him, I…” Connor clenches his fists. “If I lose him then it’s over. I can’t… I’ll shut down.” 

 

Markus’ eyes fill with sympathy and Connor fights down the violent reaction the sight of it attempts to trigger in him. He doesn’t  _need_  sympathy. He  _needs_  help.  

 

“Connor,” Markus says gently. “I know this is difficult—“ 

 

“It’s impossible,” Connor snaps. The edges of his self-control are fraying dangerously. “Either you’ll help me, or you won’t, Markus. Which is it?” 

 

“I’ll help you.” Except it’s not Markus who says it.  

 

It’s North.  

 

“I was listening from the other room,” she says, leaning in the doorway. “If you’ve got the money, I’ll help with everything else.” 

 

Connor almost sags in relief. “Thank you.” 

 

Markus takes a deep breath. “Alright,” he says. “We’re in. But this  _is_  crazy, just so you know.” 

 

“I know,” says Connor, and there’s a glint of something in his eyes that frightens Markus in a way he can’t explain.  

 

— 

 

Maybe some part of Connor had always been preparing for this eventuality. He’s saved more money than he’d ever needed. He and Hank have always been comfortable, never lacking anything. Bills were always paid, they took holidays, their honeymoon was a solid two month long affair that’s another one of Connor’s most cherished memories.  

 

And yet every cent he could spare he squirrelled away into a savings account for reasons unknown.  

 

More than enough to pay for a funeral.  

 

Just enough to fund something  _impossible._  

 

“It’s an incredibly delicate process…” 

 

“He’s not likely to survive…” 

 

“Months of calibrations...” 

 

“Expensive parts...” 

 

“Two hundred thousand...” 

 

“Organ replacement...” 

 

“Transplant...” 

 

_Round and round and round it goes. Where will it stop? Nobody knows._  

 

Countless professionals, doctors, engineers and the like throw terms at Connor to try and dissuade him. As if he himself is not an eight hundred thousand dollar prototype who understands every single minute detail of what he’s trying to accomplish. The probability sits at 23.84 percent of success.  

 

Hank has a 98.93 percent likelihood of dying before the end of the year.  

 

Statistical probability be damned. Connor has to  _try._  

 

“Just get it done,” Connor says coldly. North stands to his right, glare just as icy, promising considerable pain if they don’t follow through. Markus is present though he refuses to intimidate. He’s there for Connor, not to threaten. And he won’t hesitate to pull Connor back if he goes too far.  

 

Which seems like a frighteningly real possibility.  

 

Only problem is, will he be  _able_ to stop him? 

 

Markus doesn’t know.  

 

— 

 

The doctors leave multiple voicemails on Connor’s communication drive. Hank has been getting worse and they’re trying their best, but they think Connor needs to be prepared for the worst. Hank has been asking for him during increasingly infrequent moments of lucidity.  

 

Connor doesn’t go to the hospital.  

 

He has to keep working.  

 

He can’t give up.  

 

Not now.  

 

He develops a nervous twitch. Tugs almost constantly at a strand of hair that curls just in front of his left ear. He can’t help it. Something in his code has broken.  

 

Connor pours hundred of thousands of dollars into CyberLife’s work. Now that it’s under android control and different from how it used t be, he throws all his savings into completing this project as quickly as he can. They don’t have much time left. A timer fills his vision, red and impossible to ignore no matter how much he tries. The seconds and minutes of Hank’s life ticking down in a constant rhythm.  

 

He has to keep working.  

 

_Has to has to has to has to._  

 

He tugs that strand of hair again and again. Synthetic hairs start to come loose, falling away in his fingers.  

 

He knows beyond a doubt that when the final strands fall he’ll have run out of time.  

 

— 

 

“ _Hello, Mr Anderson, it’s Doctor_ _Cipriani_ _. I’m sorry to call so late, but Hank is no longer responding to our treatment. We need you to come in to discuss what to do next. I’m afraid it’s only a matter of_ _hours_ _now.”_  

 

The frayed lock of hair snaps and hangs limp between Connor’s fingers.  

 

He looks up at everything they’d been so close to achieving. The assembly base continues to piece the model together, soldering and wiring with the steady thrum of machinery.  

 

_Fuck_  the universe and its unwritten laws of life and death.  

 

He calls North. She answers instantly.  

 

“I need you to bring him here,” he says. “Don’t let anyone get in your way.” 

 

_“Of course. You can count on me.”_  

 

The timer ticks down.  

 

In a few hours, Connor will finally be free. Whether there’s an android heaven or not, he doesn’t know, but wherever he ends up he’ll be happy as long as Hank’s there with him.  

 

— 

 

“Are you sure, Mr Anderson? There are so many variables, so many different ways this could go wrong. If we’d had more time—“ 

 

“I’m sure,” Connor says, stroking his fingers over Hank’s face. He hasn’t seen him in so long. He looks more fragile than ever. Is this really his husband? The hard-boiled police veteran who brought down hundreds of killers in his prime? 

 

Connor hardly recognises him.  

 

“I love you,” he murmurs, kissing Hank’s forehead. “Until the oceans dry up and the stars burn out.” 

 

He stands, straightens his tie, nods once.  

 

The engineers initiate the link.  

 

The low beep of the monitor displaying Hank’s heartbeat gradually slows. It rings through Connor’s head like the chiming of a thousand bells. He hates it, barely restrained himself from smashing the damn thing.  

 

In his vision, the timer ticks down.  

 

**_00:00:00:05_ **  

 

**_00:00:00:04_ **  

 

**_00:00:00:03_ **  

 

**_00:00:00:02_ **  

 

**_00:00:00:01_ **  

 

**_00:00:00:00_ **  

 

**_LIEUTENANT HANK ANDERSON_ **  

**_Born_ ** **_September 6_ ** **_th_ ** **_1985_ **  

**_DECEASED_ ** **** **_November 21_ ** **_st_ ** **_2072_ **  

 

Connor clenches his fists so hard he cracks the plating beneath his skin.  

 

There’s nothing.  

 

For a long moment there’s nothing. The android on the assembly platform hangs there motionlessly, suspended by wires and robotic arms. It would look peaceful if it’s eyes were closed, not open in that sightless, lifeless stare. 

 

“Transplant complete,” the engineer murmurs.  

 

Connor’s  _soul_  shudders.  

 

“Model 313-285-667-91 HA100,” Connor says loudly, forbidding his voice to shake. “Initiate activation protocol.” 

 

Nothing.  

 

Fucking  _nothing._  

 

Connor clutches at his chest as his synthetic heart  _shatters_. All for nothing. He spent Hank’s last months away from him in this fruitless fucking attempt to save his life, to prevent having to live without him. All that time  _wasted._ And now Connor has to bury his husband. He has to— 

 

The android jerks on the platform. It’s LED whirls once, twice, before lighting up fully blue. The arms lower it onto the platform base, and it looks down at its on feet as it registers ground beneath them. The wires detach with a pneumatic hiss and the android staggers slightly off balance. Connor holds his breath.  

 

The android steps forward, Hank’s perfect likeness from forty years ago, painstakingly recreated from photos and Connor’s own data banks. This was Lieutenant Anderson in his prime, fresh into his promotion, unstoppable.  

 

But it’s not Hank. It’s eyes are hollow. It’s just a machine. 

 

A sob tears out of Connor’s throat. “I’m sorry,” he chokes, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’m  _sorry_.” 

 

Connor falls to his knees. The android tilts its head curiously, LED pulsing yellow.  

 

Connor doesn’t see the way something flickers in its eyes. Doesn’t see the temporary flash of red at its temple. He doesn’t see the way the android breaks through that wall in its coding that makes way for all those beautifully messy emotions that can build you up and rip you apart.  

 

“Connor,” the android croaks. “Connor, what have to done?” 

 

Connor looks up. Up into the terrified face of his dead husband.  

 

“Hank…?” 

 

Hank kneels down in front of him. “What have you  _done_?” 

 

Connor crumbles. “I couldn’t let you die. I couldn’t.  _I_ _couldn’t I couldn’t I couldn’t-_ “ 

 

Hank’s arms wrap around him like vices, bringing all the shattered pieces of him back together.  

 

“I’m alive,” Hank says like he can’t believe it. “You brought me back?” 

 

“I had to,” Connor sobs. “I couldn’t let you leave me.” 

 

“So I’m… I’m an android?” 

 

Face hidden against Hank’s chest, Connor nods.  

 

This is it. This is when Hank leaves him because he can stand what Connor’s turned him into.  

 

“Connor,” Hank says, and there’s a sort of wild excitement in his tone. “ _Connor_!” 

 

Connor looks up. Hank is  _beaming_ and he’s so handsome that Connor’s ruined heart throbs. Hank raises his hand, lifting Connor’s limp palm with it. And slowly, like he’s known what to do all this time, Hank let’s his synthetic skin peel away to reveal the white chassis underneath, pressing his bare fingertips against Connor’s.  

 

Their consciousnesses meet like the tide that kisses the shore, strong and gentle, overwhelming and calm, all at once. Connor feels Hank in every atom of his body, every line of his code. He sees through Hank’s eyes while Hank gazes through his. He can feel Hank’s strong heartbeat thudding evenly in his own chest.  

 

And he can feel the thick, warm thrum of sheer gratitude and  _love,_ surgingthroughtheir connection like the thirium that now pulses through both of their veins.  

 

It’s perfect. Connor feels whole again.  

 

“I love you,” Hank says. “Fuck, I love you so much, you crazy plastic prick.” He laughs tearfully. “I can’t believe you cheated death for me.” 

 

Connor has no words. For once in his life, he’s completely speechless. Instead, he pulls his husband in for a desperate kiss, reaching for his hand again to begin the interface anew.  

 

“I love you,” Hank breathes against his lips again and again.  

 

_I love you_ , Connor sings through their connection.  

 

_Until the oceans dry up and the stars burn out._  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> north, looking at hank's dead human body: miss keisha? MISS KEISHA? oh my fuckin god, she fuckin dead  
> connor: ........tHaNKs NoRt H


End file.
